Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Remembering a Neighbor: Hester Buell Phelps and Her Family

Residence and stock farm of D. B. Buell, Orwell, VT, 1876.
From Beers Atlas
Published online as the David Rumsey Collection.
The farm was willed to Jennie Field Phelps, foster daughter of Daniel and Marion [Abell]  Buell.

I had word last week of the passing of an elderly woman, neighbor through-out my childhood and youth, and again during nearly two decades when I returned to my home town in 1980.
Hester, a contemporary of my parents, had she lived another three days, would have marked her 99th birthday. 
Her obituary, published in the area newspaper, was so sparse in detail, so informal in tone, that I have been left pondering that the ending of a long and busy life could be so casually summarized.

Sudbury Hill Stone School circa 1927.
Hester Phelps is on the left in the front row.
[Photo from collection of Gladys Griffin Patnode, shared by Skip Patnode.]

Hester Buell Phelps was born 7 April, 1918, in Rutland, Vermont, the second child of Frank J. and Jennie [Field] Phelps. Her older brother, Franklin, was born 3 September, 1913, her younger sister Sarah Elizabeth [Sally] 25 December, 1924.

My memories of Hester place her firmly within the context of her family and home. 
Valley Ridge Farm became the property of Hester's mother, Jennie Field, upon the death of her foster father Daniel Buell in 1909 when Jennie was age 18.  Frank Phelps, in his dotage, loved to recount the story of Jennie's arrival at the farm when the death of her parents, three months apart, orphaned her and two sisters. 

Daniel Buell and his wife, Marion Abell Buell, were financially well-to-do--and they were childless.
Daniel and his brother Joel, living half a mile along the Horton RD, had achieved distinction as breeders of Merino sheep and purebred cattle, building handsome houses and barns with the proceeds of their industrious farming.

As the American Civil War dragged on, in 1862, Daniel and Marion Buell, married since 1856, brought into their home the nearly 2 year old daughter of neighbors, Franklin and Louisa [Martin] Brown. Louisa Brown, in her mid 30's, died of 'consumption' 29 November, 1862, while Corp. Franklin Brown wasted away for another year before succumbing 4 November, 1863 to the effects of dysentery and disease, legacy of his wartime service. Lizzie Brown, as she was known, would likely not have recalled the scant 2 years prior to her mother's death, growing to young womanhood in the secure and comfortable home of the Buells.

The marriage of 'Lizzie Brown' age 24, to George L. Field took place on 23 April, 1884, 
the Rev. C. A. Thomas of Brandon, VT officiating. 
George L. Field, 10 years older than Lizzie, was the son of a Tolland, Connecticutt farmer, George P. Field and his wife, Emily Phelps Field. George and Lizzie's first child, Marion Field [Spooner Adams] was born 9 months later in Granby, CT. 
Family lore indicates that Lizzie Field's health was compromised by successive pregnancies which terminated in miscarriages or still-births. George and Lizzie had two other surviving daughters, Jennie M. Field [Phelps] b. 13 April, 1890, N. Granby, CT and Beatrice Agnes Field [Farrar] b. 17 Feb. 1892, N. Granby, CT.

The legacy of George Lyman Field, as recounted by his grand daughter, Sally Phelps, is that of a restless wandering man, a dreamer rather than a man of settled accomplishment.  The 1880 census placed George L. Field in the tiny mining settlement of Olancha-Cartago, Inyo County, California. Returning from that venture, perhaps business related to his father's farming interests brought him to Vermont and into contact with the Buells where he would have met Lizzie Brown.  
A George Field of West Addison, VT is listed in an 1886 assessment as 'Cattle Breeder.' Whether this indicates that Lizzie's husband attempted a local farming venture cannot be determined.

In the mid to late 1890's George Field, ailing and seemingly unable to prosper, headed southward with his weary wife and their three young daughters in tow. George's search for a home brought the family eventually to Brown Springs, Arkansas.  He died, age 49, on 9 December, 1899, perhaps in Arkansas, perhaps enroute to yet another destination.  There is the suggestion that George and Lizzie had become part of a group planning to travel west together. 

Lizzie Brown Field died 25 February, 1900, less than 3 months after George's demise, collapsing on the railway platform at Union Station in Center Indianapolis, Indiana. The physician who examined her body and signed her death certificate pronounced cause of death as 'tuberculosis complicated by exhaustion.' She was 39 years old.
Traveling companions telegraphed Daniel Buell, who made arrangements for the three orphaned girls to return to Lizzie's childhood home at Valley Ridge Farm.  No doubt it was also Daniel Buell who organized the burial of George and Lizzie in the churchyard a mile away, providing the granite markers with their names and dates. It is the same cemetery where Lizzie's parents had been laid to rest nearly 40 years earlier.

Daniel and Marion Buell discussed the possibility of fostering Lizzie's three daughters; Marion, Jennie and Beatrice. Marion Buell, in failing health, knew that she couldn't mother three children. Marion Buell died in April, 1900, shortly after Jennie was welcomed to the household.  "Sister Marion" and "Sister Beatrice" found homes nearby within the Buell's circle of closely related families.

Jennie graduated from  high school in Brandon, Vermont--where she met Frank Phelps, whom she married when both were age 23. Frank and Jennie spent the first several years of their marriage in Rutland, Vermont where Frank found work as a book keeper and payroll clerk in the offices of the Green Mountain Marble Company. 
The 1920 census recorded on January 21st for Orwell, Vermont, listed Frank and Jennie Phelps with Franklin age 6 and Hester, not yet 2 years of age. They had come home to Valley Ridge Farm. Their youngest child, Sarah Elizabeth [Sally] was born there in 1924.

Frank Phelps, though raised in town, focused his keen and inquiring mind to learn the ways of a farmer. He applied his accounting skills to keeping the farm books and later served for many years as Auditor for the Town of Orwell.  Jennie settled again into the spacious rooms that had welcomed her as a girl. 
As the years passed the Phelps' home gained a reputation for quiet hospitality as their circle of friends increased. At each meal, whether served simply at the round table in the big kitchen or with guests present at the larger table in the dining room's bay window, the family bowed their heads while Frank intoned a blessing.
The Phelps family valued books, music, lively conversation and the exchange of ideas.
Hester inherited her father Frank's slender wiry build as well as his sharp mind and his penchant for debate. She also cultivated her mother Jennie's gift of gracious welcome.
Hester took piano lessons, Franklin played the violin, Sally created with paint and canvas. 
Hester and my mother attended the final two years of high school in Brandon boarding in the same household during the week, returning home for weekends and school vacations.

After high school Hester enrolled in Goddard College, newly organized in Plainfield, VT as a progressive, innovative liberal arts institution. 
My memories of Hester stem from the 1950's when she was employed at Lane Press in Burlington, Vermont as a proof-reader. Each Sunday evening she rode the bus from Brandon to Burlington where she rented an efficiency apartment. On Fridays, unless winter weather threatened a blizzard, she caught the late bus back to Brandon where her father met her with the car. Hester's time at the farm was busy, caring for the flock of sheep that came to be regarded as hers, dealing with requests for knitting yarn and for the beautiful woolen blankets which she had loomed to order at a mill where the yarn was died in soft heathery colors and woven into warm coverings. Some of the blankets were sold, others given as gifts. 
In summer she drove the farm truck or tractor to help Frank with haying, coming into the kitchen bare-armed and hot, twill pants rolled to the knees and her feet in canvas sneakers. Sunday mornings found her at the white church on the hill playing the pump organ for the service.

 Hester was not much concerned with fashion. Working at home or driving into town for groceries she dressed in loose trousers and cotton shirts, adding a warm cardigan if the weather required.  She sent away for fabric samples from a woolen mill and ordered lengths of tweed in earthy shades of brown, gold and mossy green. A local seamstress made these fine woolens into classic skirts, cut to accommodate the brisk stride of a woman who walked to and from her workplace. With them Hester wore soft tailored blouses in cream, yellow, or nutmeg brown. Her low-heeled brown shoes were well-polished. She didn't wear jewelry or make-up but allowed herself a spritz of cologne for special occasions.  Hester cut her own hair--snipped at it rather impatiently until it fell in a short, not quite even bob. She washed it with tincture of green soap, swept a black lock away from her forehead to be anchored with a bobby pin or clip.

 Hester, about 10 or 11 years old.

I was perhaps 12 or 13 when during February school vacation Hester phoned to invite me for an overnight in Burlington.  She had two tickets for a mid-week performance of the Vermont Symphony Orchestra. Mother saw me aboard the afternoon bus clutching a small satchel that held flannel pajamas, my toothbrush and a change of underwear.  I presented my ticket, waved goodbye from a window seat and for the next hour watched the unfolding snowy landscape of farms and small villages.  Hester, just off from work, was waiting for me when the bus trundled into the terminal. The chill of early evening deepened as the sun retreated beyond Lake Champlain. 

Hester's apartment was located on the ground floor of a large and substantial house on S. Union Street. The key clicked in the lock and we entered a warm, tidy space. The bathroom was tiny, tucked at the back of the apartment, the narrow kitchen had a window at one end. There was room for a small fridge, a gas range, sink and diminutive table. The sitting room served also as bedroom, being furnished with a studio couch that folded out into a pair of twin beds. Street lights were beginning to come on outside as Hester drew the blinds and turned her attention to supper. Memory shifts from scene to scene, leaving gaps in the event. I think that we had homemade soup for supper with cheese sandwiches toasted in the oven.  No doubt we drank tea.

Strangely, I don't recall being in the auditorium, listening raptly to the orchestra--which I would have done.  I remember that for the evening outing we bundled in layers of heavy coats, scarves and gloves over our woolen skirts and thick stockings.  I remember the novelty of walking on sidewalks, the streetlights and the sounds of the city. I remember preparing later for bed, brushing my teeth in the little white bathroom while Hester set up the beds and whisked crisp sheets and soft blankets into place. I sensed that she fell asleep quickly, while I lay awake, drifting on waves of music, growing accustomed to the strips of light which glowed through the slats of the blinds, hearing the unfamiliar hum of a city settling for the night.
We were out of bed early in the morning, folding bedding, turning the space into a sitting room once again. Sunlight found its way into the small kitchen as Hester prepared a special treat. Grapefruit was halved, drizzled with honey, sprinkled with cinnamon and popped under the broiler.  I spread butter and marmalade on a stack of whole wheat toast. 
It was cold outside with a rough wind off the lake, Crossing the city park our shoes rang on frozen ground. The exhaust from passing vehicles hung grey and thick in the chilly air. Hester pointed out landmarks as we walked.  At the Vermont Transit Terminal she directed me to the correct bus, raised a gloved hand as I said my thank-you, then turned with purposeful steps to begin her long day at a desk.  
Hester chose gifts for me over the years--with her love of books and her proximity to city bookshops, she didn't believe in 'little golden books' for young people--those inexpensive cardboard covered things available at the five and dime.  Real books, classic stories, books meant to inform and delight, were presented at Christmas and birthdays, bearing her distinctive scrawl on the inside cover. There were LP records as I grew older--a collection by the contralto, Kathleen Ferrier, Susan Reed singing old ballads.  
Hester introduced me to Bigelow's Constant Comment tea--still a favorite--although she brewed it in the yellow teapot from loose leaves while I dangle a tea bag in a mug of hot water.
It was from Hester that I first learned the use of dried herbs in cookery and that chopped celery leaves are a flavorful addition to a pot of soup. 
Hester later worked as proof-reader for a time at a press in Brattleboro, VT and finally in East Greenbush, NY before taking an early retirement and returning home to help her parents in the day to day operations of Valley Ridge Farm.  She seemed to have tireless energy, striding out to care for the sheep, roaring off in her car on errands, preparing a meal. 

Hester became the town librarian, dealing with file cabinets, the Dewey decimal system, overdue library books. Always decisive, she didn't hesitate to speak her mind, yet she could be patience itself when helping a child to select a book or directing a researcher to the small 'Vermont room' with its shelves of local and state history.  She volunteered to overhaul and organize the resources of the grade school library, sorting and cataloging.  
After her mother Jennie's quiet passing in 1980, Hester dealt with her father Frank's increasing dementia until his death in 1986. 
By this time Hester's sister Sally was often in residence.  Together they tackled the hundreds of books shelved in the small rooms above the kitchen, struggled with the upkeep of the old house and barns, trudged out in all weather to care for the now diminished flock of sheep. 
Always an erratic and headlong driver, Hester's license was revoked when in her 80's she misjudged the turning into a local supermarket parking lot, crashing into the hefty concrete structure which supported  a sign. 

The time came a few years ago when Hester and Sally could no longer stay at Valley Ridge Farm, the place that had been home to them, and in turn, to their orphaned mother and grandmother. The once lovely house stands empty, needing repairs and renovations.

In memory I see the house as it was in my girlhood, screened doors open to a summer breeze laden with the scent of yellow roses, or battened snug in winter with the coal fires glowing.
It was a home where guests were welcomed, whether coming from afar or from next door. 
It was a home where people sat in the evening to read aloud, to share the happenings of the day.

I will remember Hester Phelps, always busy, yet always making time to introduce a child to her new lambs.  I see her at the library desk, hunched over a stack of books, lock of greying hair skewered back with a bobby pin, raising her head to make a brisk, often incisive comment.

I wonder, did she ever long for marriage, coming of age as she did at a time when young men, like her brother, had been lost to war?  She had a certain independence in her work, in her thinking, in her life as a single woman, yet strong ties brought her back to the farm and the responsibilities of family.

She out-lived her contemporaries, enduring the loss of those she called friends, her span of years closing last week a little shy of a century. 
Whatever the shortfalls, Hester moved through her life with purpose and integrity.

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Storm Watch

The wind was already kicking up when I rose at 6:15, a restless stirring that increased as the sun climbed into the blue sky. 
I fixed my breakfast--a bowl of oatmeal porridge with brown sugar, dried fruit, cream--and carried it to the side porch, pulling a chair to the edge where the sun struck full and warm.
A hawk wheeled high over the ridge, gliding through the rushing air, harsh cries of 'Peent, peent,' sending a flurry of small birds to shelter on the branches of a pine.

 Breakfast done, I made my rounds, checking the daylilies transplanted into the slope below the side porch landing.

A first crop of kale is thriving. The cats are determined to dig in any freshly turned soil, disrupting tiny seedlings, so I found this side from a child's crib, [left behind by the former owners] and used it as a barricade. 

The first bud of Clematis Candida, more green than white.

Moved as a small rooted slip from our first Kentucky house, Candida is coming into her own this season.

In the rough grass along the lane tiny wild violas are in bloom.

I spent more than an hour weeding around the side porch steps, grubbing up tenacious things that seem to thrive in the gravely soil.
A quick break before noon, then out to see what can be salvaged in the perennial strips.
I lost some plants to the endless wet and humid summer of 2016. Several clumps of veronica which seemed to have disappeared have now been freed; I found that the dwarf Oriental lilies are thriving and there are tiny self-sown foxgloves growing beneath the spreading branches of the nameless rose.

My knees began to protest, but I kept on for another half hour.  When I finally creaked into the house for lunch I was surprised to find it was late afternoon.
With Jim away I am enjoying lighter meals: for my late 'lunch' a salad with lettuce, tangy/sweet 'grape' tomatoes, cucumber, a whole avocado; fresh asparagus, a toasted bagel with homemade pimento cheese.

I had planned to drive into town for a study meeting at church, but when I sat down at the computer I learned that our area was under a tornado watch.
As I washed my dishes and tidied the kitchen, the wind outside increased to a noisy whine.
The sky darkened and thunder rumbled.
The storm watch was upgraded to a 'warning.'
Above the skirl of wind came the intermittent hoots of a siren, from the firehouse station a mile away. 
Bobby Mac, who is terrified of storms, fled to his usual refuge, wedging himself along-side the laundry basket in the downstairs bathroom.
Standing on the front porch I heard the booming roar of the wind surging above the ridge.

Between intervals of rain the world took on the eerie greenish hue that inspires anxiety in the heart of those who watch a storm's progress.

The sky to the northeast was black and roiling. 
Patches of slate blue appeared, quickly obliterated by dark clouds.

The storm churned about.  A moment or two of stillness, trees unmoving, a dense quiet, then again a fury of wind and slashing rain.

Amazingly we had no power outage. 
I checked on family and friends in the storm's wide path.
Family and friends checked on me.
Every few minutes I crept outside to observe the swiftly moving clouds.

At dusk the half moon appeared in a patch of blue overhead.

I walked across the drive to observe the bit of garden I weeded earlier.

Charlie-cat crouched on the side steps, unfazed by the storm.
Now at a bit past 10 pm I've made a last inspection of the weather. The thunder has ceased, rain drips quietly from the eaves. The thermometer has dropped to 58 F.
I will want a fire in the morning.
The most recent post from the local weather station is reassuring:

No Active Hazardous Weather Conditions
issued by NWS Columbia KY

Tuesday, April 4, 2017


Kentucky spring weather continues to be capricious.
These photos are from Sunday--a lovely day to be outside.
Change is noticeable each day--the shimmer of emerging leaves in myriad shades of green, or in the case of the maples, having distinctive rosy sheen. 

 I invented reasons to be outside--tidbits to be taken to the barn cats, the return of a jar which had held goats' milk, scraps to be tossed on what I call the 'compost pile.'

The redbuds have their glory days, providing flamboyant color after winter's somber hues.

I could endlessly watch the baby goats.

Isn't she cute?
Her nose is dangerously close to the electric fence which B. put up to confine the little ones to their grassy area off the back entry which served the Amish owners as their wash house.  A small roofed area has been converted to a straw-lined bed where a heat lamp glows through the night.

The youngest goats--triplet doelings--were brought out for the first time. They were quick to realize that they had space to caper and run.
Inevitably, the baby goats must learn that contact with the electric fence is unpleasant. When an inquisitive nose touches the wire, or an airy leap brings a small hoof in contact, the kid yelps and bounces away, quickly developing a healthy wariness.

Not so with one of the little does. At her first 'bite' from the fence she flung herself into it rather than away, thrusting right through the four strands of wire, then, compounding her misery, turned and bolted back through, bleating piteously. 
She repeated this maneuver three times, crying.
F. climbed into the pen, cornered her and held her against his chest until she quieted.  When he set her on the grass she was ready to play. 
The baby goats love attention and there is always the possibility that a human approaching the pen may be bringing their food.
Until they are all more wary of the fence I've tried to admire them from a little distance not wanting to see them jostle each other against the wires.

Sally, who has developed an 'attitude,' is determined to nap in large plant pots.
I intend to take out some plastic cutlery to poke into the soil as deterrents. 

I tore myself away from the goats and decided I was ready to tackle some gardening chores, although I'm still favoring my back a bit.
The rugosas planted by my predecessor have put out yet more runners where they are not wanted.
I grubbed with a shovel, trying to follow the stout stems back to the mother plant. I found several sturdy volunteers had emerged in crevices between the concrete steps. Even a small length of woody stem left behind is capable of generating another bush or two.
I scraped out places in the gravely soil of the steep bank behind the retaining wall and poked the largest of the shoots into the ground. Several transplanted there a year ago have taken root.
The roses are pretty and sweet-scented and can do no harm if they should spread along the side hill.
Keeping the remaining ones within bounds will mean continuing vigilance.

I climbed the fence into the pasture where I had hastily interred a clump of double orange daylilies 2 years ago. I divided the roots and set them out below the concrete landing at the foot of the side porch steps. The creeping phlox which bloomed there during our first spring in residence has 'died out' allowing dandelion and other weedy things to flourish.  Knowing that 'ditch lilies,' as they are locally called, can multiply and bloom in adverse situations, this seems a likely place for them.
I rummaged out some plastic containers and planted a few seeds: tomato, muskmelon, viola, achillea. These are in the east facing windows of the sunroom and pantry. 
A few viola have pricked through the surface of the soil and one venturesome muskmelon has poked up a sturdy loop of green stem. 
Four packets of seeds arrived in yesterday's mail: two additional varieties of achillea that I covet, a pink butterfly weed [asclepias incarnata] and Camelot foxglove.
I shall no doubt once more over whelm myself with plants!
I have asked my daughter to be alert to any large planting containers that may appear on the yard sale circuit.
It was nearly dark when I gave up and creaked inside for a hot shower and a comforting mug of tea.

Clematis Candida has more than a dozen buds.
Rainy days and chilly nights are predicted for later in the week.
Exasperating--we had spring in February and now a relapse!

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Walking on a Wet Morning

Rain overnight brought us a damp morning--not cold, but heavy with moisture and stillness.
Jim had errands, I had checks/bill payments which needed to be posted.
I ate the last slice of pineapple up-side-down cake, pulled on my boots, put my camera over my shoulder and crunched down the lane.
I poked envelopes into the mailbox, noting with resignation that the bane of tiny ants are in residence again. They are impervious to dousings with either bleach or insect spray!

When I reached the creek I was surprised to see that it is not in full spate.

This shrub grows along the creek bank--one whose identity I don't know.

The blossoms cling to the branches in a manner similar to redbud--cheerful on a cloudy day.

We've been noticing that the redbuds are coming into bloom.  They are brittle scraggly trees clinging to the edges of the woods, unremarkable except during their colorful spring moment of glory.
These are also called 'Judas Tree.'

There are several redbuds fringing the edges of the steep hillside which rises behind the retaining wall by the front drive.

A few tulips circle a cedar tree at the edge of the lower drive--legacy of former owners.

Deep purple violets run rampant in the short grass of the front lawn, grow in the verges of the lane and in clumps along the creek bank.
Yellow violets are not as prevalent, seeming to like the moist woods beyond the stable.

I need to look up flower names yet again--although some of them slip out of memory nearly as quickly as I identify them!

Another plant in need of identification--the fern-y leaves do not belong to the flowers.
I also need to experiment with other settings on my camera--using the 'auto' feature doesn't give clear definition to close-up shots.

I fortified myself with tuna salad on a slice of homemade multi-grain bread, then tackled such garden chores as could be conducted without badly disturbing damp soil.
My heirloom clematis, Candida, now in its second season since transplant, has survived frosty nights and more buds have appeared.

The nameless rose came into full leaf before the cold weather and didn't fare well, although several others show little or no frost damage. 
I cut it back which may delay bloom, but makes for a tidier shrub. 
Willis, of course, supervised.
I climbed over the wall to trim some of the stems and found that in trying not to be scratched by thorns [or tread on Willis] I had put my foot squarely on an emerging plump lily bud, breaking it off.

I didn't prune away the fall bloom from the butterfly bush which has grown quite tall. 
It has a messy habit of clinging to last season's dried leaves, even as new leaves are appearing.
I clambered about, snipping, pulling branches down to eye level, feeling tiny bits of dried leaves and florets pelting into my hair and into the neck of my shirt. 

Several weeks ago when the pink tips of peonies were barely breaking through the soil, I weeded and scratched at this portion of the raised bed.
The weeds are unstoppable.
The mulch which I applied to the L-shaped perennial strips last summer did nothing to deter the variety of intruding weeds which remained evergreen through the mild winter.
I am disheartened by the disheveled and weedy mess--and by the unwelcome realization that I'm unlikely to find a workable solution.
 I stomped inside to brush twigs and leaves from my hair, made a hasty supper and cleared up.

I have sneezed throughout the evening--no surprise as Jim has been nursing a head cold.
I'm labeling it 'the church cold'--church services the past two weeks have been punctuated with sneezes and nose-blowings on every side.
Hardly a serious thing, but most annoying!  

Monday, March 27, 2017

Catching Up With Myself

The past week proved uncommonly busy with errands and appointments.
I had a second visit scheduled with the chiropractor [and a third with her today.] Jim needed parts and pieces for his tractor restoration projects and also needed to assemble prices on lumber and hardware with the possibility of building several picnic tables for our church.
Along the way he learned that an acquaintance who has been in poor health had decided to sell one of his classic cars, a 1936 Ford. Jim knew his brother was hoping to buy such an item and so long distance negotiations took place.
There was paperwork to deal with and then the car had to be collected and driven here--only a few miles away, but the whole process took way more time in emails, phone calls, and connections
 than one might imagine. 

 With the transfer of funds accomplished, the next step was title reassignment and bill of sale signed and notarized, which needed to be done at the court house, Jim climbed into the driver's seat.  The car rolled quietly to the end of the driveway and stopped--out of gas.  It couldn't have happened in a more convenient place! 
I was along as the spare driver to eventually follow Jim home in our own car.

A quick trip in our car over the hill to the little store at Hardscratch with a can for gas and this time we were really underway.
It was by then past noon so Jim decided we should stop in town for lunch.
As the week progressed we were out for lunch on three different days.

Another of Ivan's classic automobiles.

On Friday morning I took advantage of blue skies and sunshine to peg a load of laundry on the back porch lines. I had thoughts of housework and baking, but became aware that Jim was up to something. When I noticed him at his desk carefully counting out cash I inquired resignedly, 'What have you bought now?'
A neighbor a mile away on the crossroad has had this truck advertised for sale for some time. Jim looked it over and decided it would be ideal for the upcoming trip to haul the vintage Ford out west to his brother. I was initially not enthused, until I realized that other than being 2 wheel drive, the truck has the same instrument panel and interior as one I frequently drove when we lived in Wyoming. 
I was asked to go with Jim while he collected the truck, again so that I could drive our car home.
There ensued one of those ridiculous situations that soak up time .
The owner of the truck couldn't locate the title and other paperwork in the place where it should have been kept.
[We have been there and done that, as the saying goes.]
While we waited the man and his son tore apart desk drawers and rummaged through file folders.
At last, sweating and apologetic, he suggested that Jim take the truck home and he would continue to search for the title.
Arriving home I had the feeling that it wouldn't be wise to start my baking!
10 minutes later the gentleman roared up the lane and triumphantly brandished the title and with considerable relief signed the bill of sale which I had printed.
Another trip to town--to the insurance agency first and then to the courthouse;  a short wait in line, but then a longer wait while the clerk sorted things before we had all 'signed, sealed and delivered!' 
We had lunch at the sandwich shop and Jim decided to pay in impromptu visit on our daughter and son-in-law!

The first of the 'kid-crop, twin bucks.

At home, a message from our neighbor/renters that another of the goats had given birth.
I walked down the lane in the gathering dusk to visit the newest babies.
The second born of the twins was a bit lethargic, not  interested in taking the bottle with her mother's rich  colostsrum.
I was given the little doeling to hold, bundled in a soft towel. I massaged gently behind her long soft ears, stroked her sleek back, talked all sorts of nonsense to her.
Earlier in the week I was present when one of my favorite goats produced triplets!
I am not much help with the urgent details of goat mid-wifery, but I can fetch towels, I can hold a new baby goat, provide an extra pair of hands and an encouraging voice.

Baby Goats grow so fast!

While Jim priced lumber at Lowes, I foraged in the garden center, coming home with two unusual lavenders and a rosemary, Tuscan Blue.
I am quite determined to be successful again with rosemary after the failures of the past several years.

The miniature rose, birthday gift from my son and his lovely wife, was in need of a larger pot.
When I teased it free of the soil I discovered it was three separate plants.
They are in the west window of the upstairs hall until I can decide where they should live outdoors.
I'm considering that they should be treated as container plants.

So--a strangely busy week--vehicles, plants, endless errands, phone conversations, baby goats.

This evening I have built a fire while rain pounded down, thunder rattled and darkness came early.
It will be too wet tomorrow to tackle the garden tasks I had in mind, but I can sow seeds indoors, set the trays in the sunroom windows. 
I can tidy my neglected kitchen, have a look at the sewing projects which have been languishing for several weeks.
I can pull on my boots and wander along the lane, camera in hand, to delight in the changes which daily announce the progress of springtime.
Life is good!

Thursday, March 16, 2017

A Capful of Violets

I bundled up warmly at noon today, winding a fleecy scarf around my head, pulling on my old down jacket and my work boots.  The sun was bright in a blue sky, but the air had a chilly bite.
The path at the edge of the meadow was lined with lush green grass despite the recent frosts, a bit squelchy underfoot. 
I paused for a few moments to watch the clear waters of Spruce Pine Creek splashing over the cobbled creek bed, noted a robin bouncing cheerfully from branch to branch of a small sycamore.

I got myself rather clumsily across the wet ditch that divides two fields, strolled on a few yards and saw them: the first wild violets of springtime, short-stemmed, sprawling on the damp earth.
Kneeling there, camera in hand, I was swept back in time to another March day, another place.

It was warm in Grampa Mac's dining room, cozier than in the north facing rooms where my younger sister and I were living with our parents before they built the little house along the road.
Mother had pulled a chair close to the edge of the metal register which let heat billow into the room from the wood furnace in the cellar. I leaned against her knees while she gently combed the tangles from my long, freshly shampooed hair. 
The window behind us looked onto the back porch; from the metal roof icicle melt dripped onto a steadily shrinking bank of snow. Now and then a long spear of ice let go of the overhanging roof, shattering with a high brittle shiver of sound.

From beyond the kitchen the woodshed door was opened and quickly shut again with a muffled clang, followed by the heavy tread of booted feet up the three steps to the kitchen door.
Grampa Mac crossed the narrow kitchen, paused a moment on the threshold of the dining room to pull off his heavy mittens. 
The collar of his blanket-lined denim 'barn frock' was turned up to meet the 'earlappers' of his woolen cap, his face was ruddy from the cold; he brought with him the fresh scent of sun and snow and March wind, mingled with his usual aura of cows, hay, and wood smoke.

Mother laid aside the comb as Grampa Mac leaned down and commanded, "Take off my cap!"
Puzzled by this strange request I did nothing. Grampa's head was at eye level, covered by the faded buffalo plaid cap, squares of blue and black, brim twisted by seasons of outdoor work in all weather.
The felted wool had picked up a few cow hairs, a powdering of chaff.

Grampa Mac raised his head enough to smile at my bewilderment. "Go on," he urged, 'Pull off my cap!"  I tugged at the cap which came off leaving his thick grey-white hair standing in shaggy peaks.
Lying neatly in the crown of the cap, warm against the dingy flannel lining, lay a bunch of purple violets. I gathered them gently, looked up inquiringly into Grampa Mac's blue eyes.

It was the end of maple sugaring season and Grampa Mac had hitched the team of work horses, Dick and Babe to the work sled to bring sap buckets down from the sugar house to be washed and stacked away for another year.
In a sheltered hollow along the woods road, he noted a patch of bare ground where the first violets  made a brave stand.  Halting the team, he clambered from the sled and knelt to pick a bouquet. Needing both hands to drive, he considered a moment how to bring the delicate flowers home undamaged, then removed his cap and laid them safely there.

 I have picked spring violets in many places; the long-stemmed deep purple ones that appeared in a patch along the road from my parents' house; I've walked up Knox Hill to search out white ones on the slope where the painted trillium flourish.
I have found violets growing among the sagebrush in Wyoming.
Violets-- purple, yellow, white--thrive in Kentucky's springtime, popping up at the edge of my herb garden, clinging to the creek banks, thrusting up along the paths through the woods.

I delight in them, and cherish the memory of Grampa Mac who paused in his work to bring home a capful of violets for a little girl.